Thursday, December 22, 2005

Smitten

I was one of the unlucky shoppers facing long lines, empty shelves, and even longer lines today. I don't know why. I don't want to know why. I don't want to remember it. But I don't want to forget it either. All went considerably well, if of course you take into account the cantankerous look splayed across my face and the no nonsense attitude that screamed I wasn't in the mood for seasonal stupidity. And believe you me, stupidity was out in full force and no, I wasn't in the mood. Well... actually, I was in a good mood as I was spending time with my wife. I wasn't in the mood to spend time with a quarter of this Godforsaken dustbowl's population.

No sooner did I get antsy, we finished what we had set out to do.

When we arrived home, the usually wind down was sorrowfully introduced into the picture.

You see, every year, like clockwork, I get into a great mood buying things for the fam. I love the guesswork involved - even if it gives me a headache, and the anticipation of learning weather or not I did a good job - kind of like a human version of fetch. I wag my tail when they approve and hide under the bed when they disapprove. Nonetheless, this year, true to form it finally hit me when I learned the fam was going to go shopping for me. I know it sounds crazy, and trust me when I say it makes no fucking sense whatsoever, but I get ten ways of depressed and feel unworthy of another's gifts. As politely as possible, I request that nothing be bought for me, but to my dismay, the fam generally does anyhow which makes me feel like a pile of shit on Christmas morning. I end up silently worrying about finances, taking back my gifts in lieu of cash so I can deposit it into the bank, and I generally think about going for a much needed drive, taking a few pills, and taking a long and much deserved *ahem* nap. None of this ever happens though. But if my mind were reality, I would be involved in daily bawdy episodes with redheads, brunettes, blondes, and raven haired beauties alike, I would trump the Donald financially, I would swing low like Rocco Siffredi on his best day, and I would have box seats at Fenway next to Stephen King. But like I said, if my mind were reality...

So here I am, lightly medicated in a semi-silent house, the illumination of Christmas lights reflecting in the window, and I wonder why my conscience has once again made me smitten.

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About Me

You know me. I am the cool, the nerd, the jock, the loner, the fatty, the anorexic, the "You're nice, but... let's just be friends," guy. I am the cute, the ugly, the attractive, the average, the intelligent, the stupid, and the sexy one who stands silent against an otherwise vacant wall in life. I am the serious sort, despite my rampant and often over-indulgent jocular side. I am the happy friend, quick witted, with all of the trappings of being unhappy. I am the one holding up progress in the suicide line. I am the one who unjustly possesses the golden ticket of life. I am the fearful one who guides you through your fears, but is too afraid to face my own. I am the born-again bastard with two fathers. I am the adult who never learned how to be a child, and the child who desperately searches for a modicum of adulthood. I am the poster boy for mental health, the cover model for G.Q. I am the centerfold for Playgirl and the homeless man you step over in the gutter. I am you. I am them. I am her. I am him. I am me. I am me. I am...